


The Job

by HeyMurphy



Series: Managing Pickles [1]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Caretaking, Emeto Mention, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Soft Sexual Content, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23408911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyMurphy/pseuds/HeyMurphy
Summary: Pickles is sick with the flu and feeling sorry for himself, and Charles wants to make it all better.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer
Series: Managing Pickles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683898
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	The Job

**Author's Note:**

> this is gonna be the first part of a whole series of little Pickles/Charles stories I wanna write that explore their dynamic as I see it. also can someone please direct me to some sort of class where I can learn how to write Pickles' accent the right way?? cuz I'm fucking dying, it's SO hard. anyway, please enjoy. and if you wanna come scream at me about these two perfect bastards, come find me on tumblr @ lampmeeting

“This fuckin’ sucks,” Pickles moaned from his twisted pile of blankets. “Everything I try ta eat jest comes back up. Can’t have booze or pills without pukin’ my fuckin’ guts out. My head’s fuckin’ killin’ me. Only thing I got any fuckin’ energy for is talkin’, ‘n no one’ll fuckin’ hang out with me for more than two minutes ‘cause they don’t wanna catch my douchebag stomach flu. Even _you_ haven’t been around all day.”

Charles wrung some of the ice water from the hand towel and pressed it to Pickles’ brow, earning a sad sigh of relief. “I was working, as I’m sure you know. I’ve had to reschedule quite a few of Dethklok’s appearances in light of your illness.” A tremor passed through Pickles’ expression for a moment and Charles worried the poor man might actually start crying. Perhaps his tone was too harsh. “But it’s, ah, not a big deal, really. Please don’t worry about it. Just focus on getting well.”

“How’m I supposed ta do that when all tha shit I usually do ta feel good makes me feel like crap?”

Fair point, Charles thought unhappily. He wet the small towel again and held it just under Pickles’ jaw, gradually moving lower to cool his neck.

“All I can do is lay here ‘n be fuckin’ sick and gross,” Pickles continued, his voice a little quieter now as Charles tended to him. “Don’t even have it in me ta jack off, ‘n that always makes me feel better.”

“Does it?” Charles asked casually.

Pickles sniffled. “Yeauh.”

Charles returned the towel to the basin on the nightstand and cleared his throat. “Would you, ah—” He felt himself getting skittish but pushed to keep speaking. He usually wasn’t the one to initiate intimacy, but Pickles needed this. “Would you like some help with that, perhaps?”

Pickles blinked up at him, glassy green eyes only mildly alert. “Are you really offerin’ me a handy-j right now?”

In spite of his effort to remain aloof, a gradual heat warmed Charles’ face. He adjusted his glasses. “Of course. I, ah—I don’t like seeing you so miserable.”

Pickles swallowed rough and started laughing, though his eyes were damp. “Gonna make me fuckin’ cry, ya fuckin’ prick. C’mere already.”

Charles closed the small distance between them and kissed his drummer gently, startled to feel the raging fever even in his lips. Pickles was typically full of enthusiasm right out of the gate, but now his kisses were light and lazy, meandering almost. 

They gathered most of the blankets aside and Charles cupped Pickles through his drawstring pajama pants, actually a bit surprised to find him still soft. He stroked the shape of him patiently, still tasting Pickles in a series of increasingly-chaste, feathery kisses that lead nowhere.

Eventually Pickles pushed him back by the shoulder. “Never mind, guess’m just not in tha mood after all.” This time, Charles could actually see the threat of tears gathering at his eyelids.

“It’s all right.” He held Pickles’ face in his hands, thumbing at the sideburns along his jawline. “I should’ve known you were too sick.”

Pickles hung his head and Charles directed it onto his shoulder. “You wanna maybe, like, lay down with me, Charlie? Or do you gotta go do yer job some more?” His words were muffled and whiny and they broke Charles’ heart a little.

“Right now, my job is you. Whatever you need from me.” He kissed a bare spot on the man’s fevered scalp and heard a contented groan. Slipping out of his dress shoes, he situated himself more fully on the bed and eased Pickles down onto the pillows. They grabbed up the blankets again and settled in against each other, Pickles’ head tucked under Charles’ chin.

“Sorry if you end up sick with this shit, by the way.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. Just rest.”

“Well, if I do getcha sick, I’ll owe you a blowie in bed, how’s that sound?”

Charles blushed so hard he felt it in his ears. “ _Please_ go to sleep, Pickles.”

Pickles laughed wickedly to himself until the sound faded into an exhausted snore. And after a few calming breaths to chase away his body’s frustration, Charles found sleep as well.

\m/


End file.
